Heat Sink
by alden prime
Summary: It's hot on the Normandy. Really hot. Something's gone wrong after the return from the Omega-4 relay, and the ship is slowly cooking them alive. While engineering scrambles for a fix, the Commander and her— partner? Sex friend? Whatever he is— and the rest of the crew are at loose ends. Sweaty, irritable, with absolutely nothing to do. So of course, it turns into a cage match.
1. Chapter 1

Based on a total, glorious misunderstanding of the phrase "heat fic." A quick two- or three-shot. Rating will increase in the future.

* * *

 **1.**

Hadley and Matthews cleared the hell out of her way as Shepard thumped up to the bridge. She dug her fingers into the back of her pilot's plush leather chair and swiveled him around. A bead of sweat trailed down from her temple to her chin, and dripped onto the deck. "Report."

Joker looked about as wretched as she felt. His hair stuck up in damp spikes. Dark blotches ringed his armpits. "Uh—"

"Forty-one minutes ago, Jeff initiated an unscheduled use of the stealth drive," EDI said calmly. "At the same time, Chief Engineer Zorah and Engineers Donnelly and Daniels were reconfiguring the main conduits to reduce thermal resistance into the heatsinks. Their work was interrupted. I have since disengaged the stealth drive, but eighty percent of all heat conduits are currently offline, and the remaining twenty have been caught in a stable feedback loop. We are overheating."

"You _traitor_ ," Joker hissed, swatting ineffectually at her globe.

Shepard leveled a flat stare at him.

Joker slowly retracted his arm, jammed his sweaty cap back onto his head, and sunk down low in his seat.

"So, let me summarize," Shepard said pleasantly, leaning over him. The chair leather creaked in her grip. "We crossed the Omega Four relay and destroyed the Collector homeworld. We achieved the impossible, and sustained zero casualties doing it. And now we're all going to fry to death because you decided to take us out for a Sunday joyride?"

"It wasn't a joyride!" Joker yelped, ducking lower. "I saw a huge spike on the materials scanner. I know we're low on funds since you, uh, cut ties, and Mordin's been up my ass about getting more platinum, and there was this other ship on the radar, and our shields are still half busted from the Collector base, and I just thought..." He let out a long groan, and mopped his face with his hands. "...Sorry. I should have checked. I'm trying to help Tali out from up here as much as I can."

Shepard let out a breath, and released him. "Okay. EDI, how dead are we?"

"At the current rate of thermal overload, susceptible crew members will not be in danger for at least another three hours," EDI said. "Oxygen has been vented from the ship's core and engineering to slow heat transfer and reduce risk of fire. Legion's platform is working in the vacuumed section to assist physical repair. In the meantime, the engineering team is attempting to restore the primary conduits, and rerouting heat to secondary sources of thermal storage."

"What can I do to help?"

EDI's hologram flickered. "The crew is stressed. I suggest you attempt to boost morale."

"Morale?" Shepard blinked at EDI's globe. "I can't... I don't know. Send people to help? Coordinate efforts? Pick up a wrench?"

"Commander, you are not an engineer. There is still a possibility things could go wrong, but I believe Chief Zorah and her team have the situation in hand." EDI's voice changed, subtly. "With my assistance."

...Smug? Could an AI sound smug? Shepard wiped her sweaty forehead with her sleeve. "All right, if you say so. Thanks, EDI. And Joker—"

Joker shot her a wary look from under his brim.

Shepard jabbed a finger at his face. "This is bullshit, and you owe Tali a beer."

"Acknowledged," he muttered.

* * *

The crew deck was dark and humid, sparsely lit by the red blooms of the emergency lights. The crowd hummed with gossip, questions, murmured complaints. Sleeves were rolled up, pant legs tucked, collars unfastened. The air smelled like sweat. Gardner's bald head glistened. "Shepard! What's going on?"

"It's hot," Shepard said.

A chorus of groans. "No shit," barked Jack from the shadows, near the back of the hall.

Miranda stepped up to Shepard's side, face lit by the glow of her datapad. Strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. "All right, everyone. Current estimates show temperatures climbing for the next two hours before levelling off. Water rationing is in effect for all personnel. Showering, clothes washing, and other discretionary uses are prohibited. To prevent heatstroke, drink more than you think you need to. Two liters per person per cycle."

"Two liters per _human_ per cycle," Garrus drawled. He was leaning against the wall by Gardner, arms folded. "Some of us can handle ourselves a little better in the heat."

Heads swiveled instantly to glare at him. Shepard suppressed a fond smile. "Ever heard of a thing called mob mentality, Garrus? Brag all you want, but I'm not going to save you if it gets ugly."

Kasumi flickered into visibility by the kitchen sink, a mug in her hands. "This water's warm. Blech."

"Engineering commandeered the water tanks for secondary heat storage," Miranda said. "It's going to get worse."

Muttering among the crowd. Shepard held her hands up for silence.

"Look. I know this is unpleasant for _most_ of us," she said, shooting a look at Garrus, "but we need to stay on task. The Normandy is dead in space until we get this sorted. If anything in the galaxy decides it wants to pick a fight with us right now, we're pretty much tanked. So. Total radio silence, as of this moment. No messages, no extranet, no gaming, no nothing. EDI?"

"I have shut down all access protocols," EDI's voice confirmed.

Groans. Complaints. God damn. Most days, Shepard enjoyed the easy, casual camaraderie on board the SR-2, but if this were an Alliance ship, no one would even dream of whining.

She clapped her hands together. "This isn't a pleasure cruise, people! Without the expertise of our engineering staff— who, may I remind you, are currently busting their asses in temperatures twice this hot— we'd all be charcoal by now. I don't want to hear a single goddamned _word_ about making whatever sacrifices we can to help them."

Patel shifted her feet. Rolston ducked his head.

"All non-essential power draws are prohibited," Shepard added, once the crowd had settled. "For most of us, that means we won't be able to do our jobs. If you have any engineering experience, talk to EDI to see if you can help. If not, I suggest you consider yourselves on a nice, quiet vacation for the next two hours."

"You know, I've always wanted to go somewhere really dark," Garrus said. "And cramped. And humid. And smelly."

A ripple of laughter. Shepard cracked her knuckles. "I don't have to put any additional strain on the power grid to _kick your ass,_ Vakarian."

"This is true," confirmed EDI, helpfully.

"Fight!" yelled Jack.

Hawthorne perked up. "There's going to be a fight?"

"Fight!" Jack hollered again. Grunt joined in: "Fight!"

The chant got picked up by some enterprising crew members among the fringe. "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

Miranda rolled her eyes. Beside her, Thane smirked.

"You _did_ cut off our extranet access," Kasumi murmured, and took a sip from her mug. "The people demand satisfaction."

"Oh, I don't know about this," Chambers said, wide-eyed. Chakwas rubbed the bridge of her nose and muttered something inaudible.

Shepard shook her head, smiling. Operational discipline issues aside, working on the SR-2 had its benefits.

She glanced up. Garrus was giving her a considering look.

Shepard considered it.

Their... whatever it was, that had sprung up between them, in between all the friendly shit-talking and the constant one-upmanship. It was still brand-new. Awkward. Untested.

The night before the relay. Per her suggestion, they'd skipped right to the tiebreaker. And it'd been— Well. Interesting.

She should have taken Mordin up on his offered research.

Garrus had come in knowing a bit more about her body than she had about his, but they were still both rank amateurs. Fumbling in the dark. Jigsaw pieces that didn't fit. They'd tried, and laughed, and tried again, and cracked mutually awkward, terrible jokes about it, and finally fallen asleep together, curled up side by side in her tangled nest of blankets.

But that story he'd told her lingered in her memory. What if they hadn't skipped right to the tiebreaker? What if...?

His steady gaze held hers. The low red light poured over the sharp planes and angles of his face, his neck, his shoulders, his long, long arms.

Damn him. She'd always had a thing for tall, lanky types.

And he was just so... Garrus. Sharp. Funny. Frighteningly competent. So utterly dependable it made her heart hurt. She'd leapt on the opening he gave her. Tried for the casual approach: two good friends, a roll in the hay, why not? She'd tried to remove any hint of pressure, or obligation. Tried to leave him a clear and graceful exit path.

But he hadn't taken it. So they'd tried. And even though her stupid pride had convinced her she didn't need _research_ to show him a good time, even though that test run had proved more than a little mortifying, he hadn't exactly told her "Spirits, no, never again."

Actually, he hadn't told her anything at all.

She still wanted this— them— to work. She wanted it an embarrassing amount.

Well, then. Nothing left to lose but her dignity. In front of the entire ship.

The people demanded satisfaction.

"Patel, gimme your hair tie," Shepard said. "We're doing this."

Patel hooted with delight, and passed it over.


	2. Chapter 2

**2.**

The shuttle bay was removed from consideration, as it had been removed of all its oxygen. So that meant the ceremonial ass-kicking would have to happen right here, in the mess hall. Fine with her.

Matthews and Hawthorne shoved tables against the walls. Goldstein and Gardner stacked chairs and set them aside. Massani stood in the corner, taking bets.

Garrus gave her a long, significant look, then sauntered off towards the battery to change out of his armor. Shepard checked in with Joker and EDI ("Situation under control, Commander"), then turned and climbed up the narrow access shaft to her cabin.

The temperature was only marginally more tolerable on the top deck. She stripped off her sticky, overripe crew uniform, and stood there for a moment, legs spread, arms outstretched, letting her sweaty skin evaporate in the ovenlike air.

Her armpits were slick again in seconds. She sighed, then peeled herself into a clean sports bra and compression shorts, and contemplated her outfit options.

Uniform. Underarmor. Cerberus-issue workout gear, consisting of a logo t-shirt and track pants.

Shepard looked down at her bare legs. The cybernetics beneath her skin glowed faintly in the murky, red-tinged shadows.

Actually, you know what— Fuck it. This was fine. It was a lot to show, and might raise some eyebrows among the human crew. But she'd never been particularly shy about her body. And he underestimated her, or better yet, got _distracted..._ it'd be more than worth it.

She rummaged through her desk drawer, retrieved a roll of athletic tape, and wrapped it around and over her knuckles. Flexed her hands. Tugged at the straps of her sports bra, settling the fit. Snapped the waistband of her shorts, too, just for the hell of it. Checked herself out in the bathroom mirror. Nodded.

She clambered back down the access shaft. The ladder rungs scorched the soles of her bare feet.

So. This was her master plan. In order to boost crew morale and rekindle her faltering sex life, she was going to go beat up Garrus Vakarian in front of everyone. While scantily clad. In sauna-like temperatures. During an ongoing engineering crisis that could still, at any time, spiral out of control and kill them all.

Quite possibly the stupidest idea she'd ever had.

But she'd come through the Omega-4 relay and back again. She'd stormed the Collectors' home base and repaid two years of debt with wholesale slaughter and a nuclear explosion. She hadn't lost a single one of her people along the way. She was Commander _fucking_ Shepard, undead patron saint of bad ideas, and she was going to kick her best friend's ass until he loved her.

Or go down in flames trying.

* * *

She re-emerged to wolf whistles. "Simmer down, Goldstein," she said, smiling.

"Sorry, ma'am," Goldstein chirped, clearly anything but.

"You certainly took your time." Garrus stepped out of the shadows shrouding the medbay doors. Sleek, corded muscle in a skin-tight black undersuit. His hands were bare. "Ready to get this show started?"

Shepard licked her suddenly-dry lips. Shit. Fuck. "Born ready," she managed.

"Ground rules," announced Chakwas, stepping in front of them. She dabbed sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. Gestured up at Garrus's bandaged jaw. "No ruining my handiwork, or I'll become very cross." Chakwas ticked off additional points on her fingers. "No claws or fingernails. No biting."

"Aw, c'mon," drawled Garrus.

Shepard felt her face heating up. This really, truly, had been a terrible idea.

"Drink a full glass of water between rounds. Half glass for you, Garrus. If either one of you becomes disoriented, sluggish, or otherwise compromised, the fight stops immediately. And I want an additional referee."

Samara spoke up. "I will serve."

...Wow. Really? "Thank you," Shepard said, recovering her wits. "It'd be an honor."

Samara favored her with a small smile.

"Since I know better than to try to stop this madness from happening, I suppose that's all." Chakwas gave them a sharp nod. "Good luck to you both."

Rustles and whispers among the watching crowd. Shepard stared up at Garrus. He stared back.

Hot air swirled across her damp, flushed skin. She couldn't tear her eyes away from his body. The sweep of his broad shoulders, his cowl, his slender waist. He shifted, watching her. The muscles in his thighs rippled with the movement.

God _damnit,_ he was tall. Why was he so tall?

Was he even distracted by her... anything?

She thought there'd been at least a spark between them, that night. On the other hand, he'd outright stated he wasn't into humans. So why did he even agree to—? Had she just been misreading—

Fuck! No. Stop. Bad train of thought. Focus on something else. She needed a confidence boost.

"Miranda, who'd you bet on," Shepard said, without taking her eyes off him.

"On myself, obviously," Miranda called back, voice tart. "I do damned good work."

Good enough. Shepard smirked, and rolled her shoulders. Stretched her arms across her chest. Arched her spine from side to side.

Garrus watched her, eyes narrowed.

"So, Vakarian." She struck a bodybuilding pose. Popped a bicep. Someone— Kasumi? Chambers?— whistled. "You really think you can take down Lawson's masterpiece?"

His voice was a low rumble. "I know I can."

Her smirk broadened into a grin. "Then bring it on."

Whoops from the crowd. Shepard backed up into their makeshift ring. The space wasn't large; bodies and tables crowded the edges of the room.

He followed her, bare talons clicking against the deck, eyes sharp. His fingers flexed.

Patel's elastic still encircled her wrist. Shepard bit down and pulled it free. Held it in her teeth as she gathered up a showy, messy pile of her hair. Shot a look at him from under her eyelashes.

Ah, shit. Of course hair wouldn't do anything for him. Turians weren't—

No. Wait. He was definitely looking.

At her neck. Huh.

Shepard tilted her chin down, and tied her ponytail high.

Hair secured. She grinned and tossed her head. Bounced on her toes. "Any ground rules of your own, Vakarian? Anywhere I'm not supposed to hit?"

He paused. "...Fringe, I suppose. Knee and elbow spurs. They're delicate. Painful. What about you?"

Shepard patted her breasts. "Pretty nasty for human women if we get nailed here. Groin, too, but you knew about that. Hair pulling's considered a cheap shot."

"Noted." His eyes slitted again. "Call it."

"Begin," said Samara, tranquil as ever.

The crowd erupted. Shepard's grin widened.

Yes. Hell, yes. She loved every second of this already. Why hadn't she done this with him ages ago?

She cracked her neck. Fired a few practice jabs at the air. Sweat glittered on her forearms. "So. Garrus. I hear you're pretty good in the heat."

Garrus stalked towards her left, watching her with his hawk's glare. "Palaven's a hot place. High gravity, too. Same as Tuchanka's."

Shepard circled back around to match him. "Yeah? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Bone and muscle density," he said, good mandible flaring out in a smirk. "Pound for pound, turians are the strongest race in the galaxy."

Yells from the crowd. Grunt bellowed something indignant about krogan supremacy.

"Skinny thing like you?" She pursed her lips. Looked him up and down. "Garrus, seriously. Pound for pound? Do you even outweigh me?"

His mandible flared wider. "Come a little closer, Shepard, and let's find out."

Shepard grinned back. Raised her hands to a high guard, and stepped in.

His opening strike nearly took her jaw off.

Hollers. Booing. "Fuck!" She spat pink-tinged saliva. "How—?"

His eyes crinkled. "Reach."

"Smug bastard," she said under her breath. "You're going down, Vakarian," she added more loudly, for the audience's benefit.

Her blood sang. Her face hurt. Shepard kept grinning anyway.

Best idea she'd ever had.

* * *

It was lawless, messy, and brutal. Just like every operation she'd ever run. Her ground team of thugs, professionals, and professional thugs hollered for blood, with the exceptions of Miranda and Thane (who were generally above that sort of thing), and Mordin (who was too busy taking notes).

The Cerberus crew behaved a bit more decorously, all hissed-in breaths and sympathetic groans. She couldn't tell yet which way the crowd's allegiances split. Didn't have the attention to spare. She was too busy trying to stay alive.

His _fucking_ reach. She couldn't get within five feet of him.

Garrus had clipped and filed his claws the night of their ill-fated liaison, but he still took care to tuck them into his palms before striking, mindful of Chakwas's wrath. Good thing, otherwise the hit he'd just landed would have left her exsanguinating on the deck. She wheezed in agony. Pushed the pain down, aside, away.

Her jaw ached. Blood trickled sluggishly from her nostrils. Coppery-tasting crust flecked the corners of her mouth. Her shoulders were bruised, her arms covered in scratches, her tape-wrapped knuckles throbbing from the few hits she'd been lucky enough to land.

But she was alive. Awake. Still in the game.

Now. How to win it?

She glared at him. Tossed her head, flicking drops of sweat away. Her sports bra was nearly soaked through.

His eyes glittered in the low, reddish light. "I told you, Shepard. Top-ranked."

He wasn't even bothering to guard anymore. _Asshole._

But even though she was getting her ass handed to her in front of everyone, she was learning. Watching. Evaluating. He was much taller, and perhaps moderately stronger. She could have compensated for that much, but he was _fast,_ too— lightning fast. Terrifyingly fast. Fast enough to send a thrill of actual fear racing up her spine, to that tiny, furry, long-buried part of her mammalian hindbrain, one that cowered and longed for a safe rock to dive under.

She couldn't move quick enough to close in without taking fire. Couldn't press past his defenses, couldn't get up in his face, where his long arms would become unwieldy, useless.

So, that sucked.

But maybe she could make him close in on _her._

She spat frothy blood onto the deck. "This how you wore down that scout of yours, Garrus? Just standing there, looking pretty, letting your freakish height do all the work for you?"

"Sure. Why not? Saved myself a lot of energy that way." His good mandible tipped out in a sly smile. "She certainly seemed to appreciate it later on."

Someone in the crowd ooohed. Hadley? Maybe Rolston.

Muttering. Whispering. A louder voice broke through: "Wait, are Vakarian and the Commander—?" and was quickly shushed.

"Water break," announced Chakwas. "Drink."

Shepard took the proffered bottle from Samara, suddenly very aware of her gritty eyes, her sticky tongue. She sucked down the contents in two seconds, throat pulsing, head tipped back.

A trickle escaped and made its way down her jaw, her neck, the hollow of her clavicle. She smeared her hand across her wet, blood-flecked lips.

Garrus had paused, bottle poised at his mouth, to watch her.

Huh.

She gave him a smile that was all teeth. "Enjoy the show later, Vakarian. I know you're recording this. C'mon. Back to work."

 _"Someone's_ eager." His voice lowered to a purr. "You really want to keep banging your head against this wall, Shepard, far be it for me to deny you."

She threw her empty bottle to Matthews, cocked her hips to one side, and gestured.

Behind her, Miranda coughed suddenly. Garrus's eyes widened. "...Where did you even _learn_ that?"

"Secret," Shepard said. "C'mon. Quit wasting everyone's time. Fight me for real."

"Who taught you how to—? You have way too many fingers. It wouldn't even work like that."

She grinned. "Do all turians lack imagination, or is it just you?"

He glared at her. Tossed back the rest of his water. Dropped the bottle into Chakwas's waiting hands. Stepped forward, arms raised, fists curled.

She stood there and waited, in a loose stance. Let him come into range.

His right forearm tensed. His left shoulder lifted, fractionally. His hip tilted and began to rotate backwards.

Shepard took in a breath. Felt her heartbeat slow to a distant, booming thunder.

The room plunged into silence. Gooseflesh prickled her arms.

Yes. This. _This_ was what she lived for. That pinprick moment between stimulus, response. That atom-edged, electrical slice of time, where her awareness expanded to fill the entire universe.

At her core, Shepard was a protector, not an aggressor; she worked better on the defensive. She worked _best_ when the odds were absolutely fucked. In those suspended instants of total chaos, when every muscle, every bone, every breath in her body traced out a map of possibilities, and lit the forward path in flashing red—

She dropped flat onto her back. Garrus's punch flew out into empty air.

His momentum carried him forward, even as his face registered his confusion. As he began to recover, she kicked her leg up and hooked a knee over his hip. Tightened her abdominal muscles, and launched herself up in a twisting arc around his body, like a monkey scrambling up a tree.

He lurched under her weight. Flailed. "Wh— Shepard—"

"Hi," she said warmly, wrapping her elbow tight around the base of his throat. She planted one foot on his jutting hipbone. Leaned back, evading his reaching hands.

The crowd roared. Fists pounded on tables. "Yeah, Commander!" "Take him down!"

He yanked at her foot, but she just readjusted her balance to compensate. He grabbed at her wrist, but her skin was sweat-slippery, and she slithered out of his grip in an instant. And he couldn't reach back and tear her off full-force. Not without risking vivisection.

"Slick moves, Shepard," drawled Massani's voice in the crowd.

"Stop fucking around, Vakarian! Get her!" That was definitely Jack.

A frustrated growl rumbled up from deep in his chest, vibrating into her bones.

Shepard grinned. "How's that reach working out for you, buddy?"

"You— clinging little pyjack," he hissed, swiping uselessly at her. "You're _heavy._ How are you so heavy?"

"Seventy percent water," she replied, and twisted away from his grasp, sending him staggering, off-balance. "And I guess the rest is cybernetics? Not really sure."

"Never knew you and the damn hanar had so much in common." His questing fingers closed around her ponytail.

Shepard's eyes widened. Wait. Was he really going to—? Shit!

Garrus hauled her up by her hair, absorbing her retaliatory kicks and swipes, setting up for a shoulder throw. The humans in the crowd booed and yelled with renewed enthusiasm. Her eyes watered with the pain. She grabbed a fistful of his fringe and yanked his head back. "I _told_ you that was a cheap shot, you son of a bitch."

"Chakwas made me promise not to claw you up," he said, eyes slitted, silvery teeth clenched tight. "And if I grabbed onto that scrap of fabric you're wearing, I'd tear it in half. My options here are— pretty limited—"

"Aw, you noticed my outfit," she purred.

A hoarse chuckle. "You're a maniac."

"You love it. In three."

"Fine," he said. "One. Two."

She released him and dropped to the ground. Fell immediately into a low squat. His jab whistled over her head. She kicked her heel out into the side of his weight-bearing foot.

He kept his balance. Backed up a step. Pity. Her scalp throbbed. She owed him one.

She watched him, staying low, considering her options. Joint locks, submission holds, choke-outs... None of that stuff was going to work. He was too long, too strong, too quick. She was good enough to maim or kill him, if pressed. But it was a lot harder to take someone down gently. And at this point, she had to admit it— she probably wasn't good enough to do that.

Not without a _really_ cheap shot.

She backed up a step. Put a hand on her shoulder, and stretched out her neck from side to side, slowly, watching him through half-lidded eyes. "So. Are turians into pain?"

"What?" He gave her a flat look. "Where is this coming from, Shepard?"

"You know. Kinky shit. Answer the question, Garrus. Or am I making you uncomfortable?"

His eyes flicked to their watching crowd. He circled around her. "Some of us are, some of us aren't. Same as humans, I imagine. We might have a higher tolerance for it on the whole. Mandatory service puts us through our paces."

"Oh?" She arched an eyebrow. Raised her hands to a high guard. "Then why are all the turian pornos I've seen so _incredibly_ violent?"

The crowd erupted in whoops of laughter. Garrus's good mandible dropped open. "You watched— Wait. Where did you—?"

Shepard pointed a finger at the ceiling.

Joker's voice patched in through the overhead speakers. "Leave me out of this."

"All of them, Garrus. Every single one. Pretty woman, handsome guy, a bit of banter. Some slow, leisurely undressing." Shepard shot him a smoldering glance. Hooked her fingers into claws. "And then they just _rip_ into each other."

"That's—" Garrus's faceplates twitched. The soft hide of his neck darkened. "That's just for the export market. Living up to the stereotypes. We're an entire species, Shepard, everyone's different. Are you telling me that _human_ porn is representative of how it's done?"

"Depends on the production company," Jack said from the back of the room. "Hey, Joker. Still listening? Let's compare notes sometime."

Shepard smirked, and dropped her guard. Approached Garrus's side of the ring, slowly, deliberately, placing her feet in front of one another.

He tensed and drew back a little, but let her come into range without attacking.

She leaned in close. Pitched her voice low. "You were so careful with me, that night. So gentle. It was surprising. So... that's what you're into, huh?"

His eyes widened, then narrowed. "Not... necessarily. But you're—" He gestured down at her body, lingering at her waist.

Shepard let fly with a right straight. His head snapped back.

The crowd erupted with cheers, boos. General hollering.

"Sorry, didn't catch that. I'm what, now?" Shepard bounced on her feet as Garrus straightened, hissing, one hand to his nose.

The look he shot her promised dark things for her future. Shepard grinned.

She was ready for it, but his speed surprised her once again; his strike glanced off her cheekbone, splitting the skin. Blood welled up. Spilled down her cheek, dripping from the corner of her jaw, her chin.

"Fragile," he said, voice low. Her blood flecked his right hand.

A trail of blue stained the plating under his nose, the same inky cobalt as his tattoos.

Shepard stood still. Ignored the throbbing in her cheek. "Is that what you really think?"

His eyes dropped to her bare, glistening legs. Her abdomen. Her collarbone. "No. But—" He let out a huff of breath. Flicked a glance at the watching crowd. "Really, Shepard? We're talking about this _here?"_

She feinted a kick at his instep. Twisted her hip at the last instant and hooked her heel behind his knee. Pulled.

He hit the deck with a satisfying thud. Snarled, swiveled around and up to a crouch. Launched himself at her with dizzying quickness.

His forearm cracked into her hastily raised guard. She swore at the impact. Slid to the side of his incoming kick, and rammed a knee into his gut. Locked his arm to hold him still and followed up with a throat punch.

He coughed. Hooked his foot behind hers and leaned in. Twisted her around in a blink. Her back was pressed up against his chest, one leg trapped, her elbow pinned behind her, before she understood quite what had happened.

Cheers. Whistling. She glared at the crowd. "Sorry, Shep," said Kasumi, not sounding very sorry at all. "We're here for the underdog."

Shepard flexed a few muscles, twisted her arm, testing his grip. Garrus tightened his hold.

He leaned down, his good mandible brushing against her ear. "So. You did research."

"Uh." She suddenly noticed every single degree of the elevated heat levels. "I... not as soon as I should have."

He shifted his grip on her. Pressed into her lower back, forcing her spine to arch. His fingers wrapped around her ponytail. He began to pull back, slowly, insistently.

Her head tipped back, back, exposing her throat. She swallowed. Met his upside-down stare.

His eyes were dark. His voice was quiet. "So, Shepard. Are humans into pain?"

...God.

Her thighs tightened. She shifted her hips. "Depends on the human."

"There's only one I'm interested in."

Her cheeks flushed. Her mouth parted.

She cracked her head back against his plated chest, crunching his fingers in between. Stomped down on the arch of his curving toes. Slithered out of his grasp and flowed around him. Ducked his answering swipe. Aimed a vicious kick to the inside of his knee.

The crowd booed. Shepard turned on them. _"Really?"_

"Kick her ass, Vakarian!" Patel. That traitor.

She whirled just in time to see him coming. His forearm strike landed dead center to her chest. The air erupted out of her lungs. Her back flattened against the deck. She gasped for breath. Spun her hips around and hooked her knee around his shin, arresting his retreat. She reached out a hand, grabbed that little, unprotected spur behind his calf, and yanked.

He hit the floor next to her, clutching his leg, hissing a stream of vile-sounding syllables.

"Ref," called Jacob.

Samara materialized by Garrus's side. "Do you wish to continue?"

He tipped his head over to glare at Shepard. "You're going to answer for that."

She fluttered her eyelashes at him. Her cheek bled sluggishly. Her sweat dripped onto the greasy deck plates. "Can't wait."

Chakwas's boots stepped into view. "Water," she announced, dropped the bottles on the ground, and walked away, clearly appalled with them both.


End file.
